


Consequences

by zathara001



Series: Brothers [8]
Category: Leverage, The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Twins, Gen, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-20 14:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6011119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zathara001/pseuds/zathara001
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliot's former life and Jacob's mission collide in San Lorenzo.</p><p>Part of the Brothers-verse, this story takes place sometime after Discord.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ETA: I forgot to note (because it's so bloody obvious) that I own nothing to do with Leverage or The Librarians, more's the pity. All rights in this story are hereby given to those who do.

"Tell me again," Jacob Stone grunted as he hefted one end of a four-by-eight-foot long solid oak table to tilt it on its side, "why we're moving these tables?"

 

"Because Mr. Carsen said this table ought to be round," Jenkins answered from where he stood by the door that led to the Annex's elevator and thence to the basement. "I happen to agree with him."

 

 _Of course you would_ , Jacob thought. _Why wouldn't Galahad want a round table?_

 

He knew better than to voice the thought aloud, especially when Ezekiel Jones chimed in with a different take on the situation. "You're not the one moving the rectangular ones, mate."

 

"When you reach my age, Mr. Jones," Jenkins said, "you, too, will be exempt from physical labor."

 

"That's an _if_ , Jenkins," Jacob said. "C'mon, Jones, the slower you go the longer we gotta carry this thing."

 

"These are the hands of a master thief," Jones declared. "I'm not going to risk them. I shouldn't be risking them in manual labor at all."

 

"Be risking more than your fingers if you don't get moving," Jacob snarled, and was pleased to see Jones flinch, if only a little. Paying attention to how his twin managed his own team of, yes, oddballs, had paid off.

 

Finally, they maneuvered the table into the elevator and Jacob touched the button for the basement. One of the basements, he corrected himself, and resigned himself to waiting until the doors chose to open. Even Cassandra had given up trying to count the floors beneath the main Library, saying, "It's a tesseract. There could be an infinite number of floors, or there could be none."

 

But there were floors when the doors opened, and Jacob tried to focus on that. Post-modern surrealist art was easier to understand than physics.

 

Finally the doors opened into a storage area, and Jacob again took the lead in getting the table out of the elevator and stored near its twin, and thank God someone had realized that a sixteen-foot-long table was impossible to maneuver even in a place that only had a passing acquaintance with the laws of physics like the Library.

 

When he and Jones made it back to the main room, Jacob saw that Flynn, Eve, and Cassandra had gathered around the Clippings Book in its temporary spot by the Back Door.

 

"New case?" Jacob asked. Jones beat him to the Clippings Book, but he peered between Flynn and Cassandra’s shoulders at the clipping that signaled another event the Librarians needed to look into.

 

"A copy of Omar Khayyam’s _Treatise on Demonstration of Problems of Algebra_ has turned up," Flynn said. "Only there are notes in this one that aren’t in any other known copies, so scholars are debating its authenticity. Of course they are. They don't know the right questions to ask."

 

Even across the few inches separating them, Jacob could feel Cassandra quivering with excitement. "If it is authentic, it would be a major find. And if those notes are magical notes, it could rewrite most of mathematics as we know it. I’m going to get it!"

 

"It does seem like this case was made for you," Flynn agreed.

 

"It's in Iran," Eve observed. "You’re not going there alone, Cassandra."

 

"I'll go with her," Jones said. "The article says the manuscript's going on display at the Malik National Museum and Library. Very tight security. You'll need a thief to help you get it."

 

"All right, then, Jones - you go with Cassandra," Flynn said.

 

"I'm going, too," Eve said. Flynn looked ready to protest, but she glared him down. "It's Iran - not the safest place for Americans or Aussies. Iran's been having informal talks with NATO representatives, so my ID could be helpful if things get tight. Jenkins, do we have headscarves anywhere? And Cassandra, you'll need to wear a longer skirt."

 

Jacob looked at Flynn as the others disappeared into the depths of the Annex. "Guess that leaves you and me to set up the new table."

 

Moving a round table was much easier, Jacob decided. He almost hadn't needed Flynn's help to turn it onto its side and roll it into the main room, but the extra set of hands keeping it stable did make the job a little easier.

 

"Perfect," Flynn said once they'd righted the round table, and Jacob had to agree that the new table did suit the room and the Librarians better than the rectangular one had.

 

Jacob turned to the stacks on the floor to start putting them on the new table. Pride of place would go, of course, to the Clippings Book, and he lifted it carefully - only to almost drop it when it shuddered in his hands.

 

"What the -?" Even as he began the question, Jacob knew the answer. Another clipping had appeared in the book.

 

"Another case?" Flynn asked.

 

Jacob rested the book on the table, scanned the new article. It was brief, only a couple of column inches. "Edwin Ribera, former president of San Lorenzo, died this morning of an apparent heart attack. The villa where he was living and all its contents will be going on the auction block. The villa, once the property of international money launderer and antiquities smuggler Damien Moreau, is rumored to contain millions of dollars' worth of art and artifacts dating back to European prehistory."

 

"Sounds like a job made for you," Flynn said.

 

"San Lorenzo's been on my bucket list for a while," Jacob admitted. "Even at its best, it was only a minor British colony, so nobody pays it much attention. But I have this theory about British colonial architecture, and..."

 

"I'll read the paper you write on it," Flynn promised. "But the auction's set for tomorrow morning, their time, which means you need to get going."

 

Jacob nodded and couldn't help grinning as they set the Back Door for San Lorenzo. Even five years ago, he'd never imagined that not only would he check off almost every item on his bucket list, but he'd add new ones that he'd never dreamed existed - and check them off, too.

 

"See you later," Jacob said, and opened the door.

 

#

 

Eliot Spencer always had mixed feelings when the Bridgeport Brewpub closed for a private event. On one hand, he was glad that the brewpub was popular enough that people wanted to book it - he took that as a sign than he really did know how to manage a restaurant kitchen, as well as cook for one, and thank you, Toby, for all those lessons.

 

On the other hand, cooking for two hundred people at once was far more challenging than serving the same number of people over several hours with different seating times, and the brewpub staff didn't have as much practice with those logistics as a professional catering kitchen staff would.

 

Still, Eliot relished the challenge when it came up, and so far, his kitchen crew hadn't let anyone down. They wouldn't start tonight, either, he vowed privately. Not when they were cooking for a friend.

 

Technically, Tabatha Delavega was more than a friend. She'd been a client once, and Eliot had dated her briefly after that job was finished. He stayed friendly with her after they'd broken up and she'd started dating someone else, and was honestly happy for her when she told him she was getting married. Then she'd complained over coffee about how expensive wedding venues were, and he'd offered the brewpub at a nominal rent.

 

Now, Tabatha and her fiancé were getting ready to exchange vows in the special events room, and Eliot was overseeing the preparation of the reception meal.

 

His phone rang in his pocket, and he reached for it. With any luck, it'd be the baker saying they were on the way with the cake.

 

But the display read only, "J."

 

"Sorry, Jake, busy," he muttered and shoved the phone back into his pocket without answering, then turned back to his kitchen. He had a lot of food to prepare and not a lot of time to get it done.

 

Almost an hour later, Eliot surveyed the brewpub with satisfaction. The entrée and main courses had been served, and his job was officially over. Unofficially, he'd hang around and help with the cleanup, but for now he could take a moment to relax.

 

He stepped through a door marked Staff Only and into Leverage, Inc.'s command center, the only place he could be sure to be out of the way and have a moment's quiet at the same time. Remembering the call that had come earlier, he pulled out his cell phone and tapped the button for voice mail.

 

The message sent a chill down his spine.

 

"Imagine my delight when my men told me they'd captured you, Eliot." It wasn't Jake speaking, but Eliot recognized Damien Moreau's voice immediately. "And then imagine my surprise when it turned out not to be you, but instead a twin brother. Call me when you're in country, no more than twenty-four hours from now, or … well. You know there are always consequences."

 


	2. Chapter 2

Eliot forced himself to stand still while he waited for the call from General Flores. He wasn't lying when he said he had a plan, but unlike Nate's plans, his depended on up-to-date intel, and he wouldn't have that until he talked to General Flores.

 

"I'm sorry."

 

He glanced up at Baird, quirking one eyebrow in a question.

 

"For not briefing the others," she clarified. "But you said Jacob didn't need to know the details."

 

"That he should stay away from San Lorenzo's not exactly a detail," Eliot said.

 

"No, it's not," she said. "And I haven't been out of NATO so long that I've forgotten how things work."

 

"But you don't think about it," Eliot said. "Y'get out of the game, and right away you start to forget how it's played."

 

"I won't forget again," Baird told him. "But for now - how can we help you get Stone back?"

 

"We'll all help." That was Cassandra's voice, and Eliot looked past Baird to see the redhead approaching, followed by Jones and Flynn.

 

Eliot's phone rang. A glance at the display told him it was a video call from Parker's phone. "There a big screen we can transfer this call to?" he asked.

 

"On it," Jones said and vanished into the depths of the Annex.

 

Eliot answered the call, saw the face of his old friend on the small screen of his phone. "General Flores."

 

"Spencer." The older man smiled. "To what to I owe the pleasure of a visit from your lovely friend?"

 

Despite the situation, Eliot had to smile a little. "Down, sir. She's spoken for."

 

"All the beautiful ones are."

 

"Got it." Jones returned, pushing a rolling cart before him. On top of the cart rested a television that looked older than the ones Eliot had seen in grade school. Eliot frowned, but trusted that the other man knew more about the things in the Annex than he did.

 

Jones positioned the cart, made a couple of adjustments on the television, then held out a hand to Eliot. "I'll forward the call, and we'll be set."

 

"One moment, sir." Eliot passed his phone to Jones. Moments later, the general's face appeared on the screen. "General."

 

"You have a different team now, Commander."

 

"Not my team, sir, my brother's."

 

"Brother?" Flores looked puzzled.

 

"Twin brother, sir," Eliot clarified. "And he's why I'm calling. Where's Damien Moreau?"

 

The general looked surprised. "In the Tombs, of course."

 

"Are you certain of that, sir? Absolutely certain?"

 

"I receive daily reports from the guards."

 

Eliot bit back a grimace. "I received a voice message from him earlier. He's taken my brother."

 

"I'll check the Tombs myself."

 

"No," Eliot snapped. "Don't change your routine. If you do, you'll tip him off and he'll kill Jake."

 

He heard a gasp - Cassandra, most likely - behind him, ignored it to maintain his focus on the general. "You know how Moreau works, sir."

 

"Almost as well as you," Flores said grimly. "What do you want me to do?"

 

"For now, nothing. We'll talk when I get there."

 

Flores nodded, and then his face was replaced by Parker's. "What about me?"

 

"You remember how you got into the Tombs last time?" At her nod, Eliot said, "Check it out, see if anyone else has gone in or come out that way. And find us a staging ground."

 

Parker nodded again, then the screen went dark. Eliot frowned, reviewing his options for the hundredth time since he'd played Moreau's message. There weren't many, and none of them were likely to go over well here.

 

"How can we help?" Jenkins' question brought him out of his reverie.

 

"There's only one way to save Jake," Eliot said. "I have to strike before he expects me, and he expects me in -" he checked the time "- about twenty-one hours."

 

"You're going to be late," Carsen said. "It's a thirteen hour flight just to London, and then you still have to transfer to San Lorenzo."

 

"I'm not flying," Eliot said. He nodded to the Back Door.

 

Baird stepped forward. "I'm with you, Spencer. When do we leave?"

 

"We don't leave until the team's ready," Eliot said.

 

Flynn spread his hands with a puzzled expression. "You've got one."

 

"No," Eliot said. "Not for this."

 

"We're Librarians, mate," Jones said. "We handle dangerous missions all the time."

 

"Not this kind of dangerous," Eliot said. "Or didn't Baird brief you on Damien Moreau?"

 

"We want to help," Cassandra said firmly.

 

"I don't think math or physics will help Jake," Eliot gentled his tone.

 

"There's got to be something we can do," she protested.

 

"You can help me get the last member of this team."

 

"Team?" Carsen repeated. "No. No no no no no. You're not bringing strangers into the Library."

 

"Mr. Carsen," Jenkins spoke before Eliot. "Since Mr. Stone is on Library business, and it was the Librarian who sent him - oh, enough of that."

 

Eliot was certain his expression mirrored the others' in surprise.

 

"We are going to help Mr. Spencer bring his brother home because it is the right thing to do," Jenkins said. "And if Mr. Spencer trusts his team, then we will, too."

 

"With the Library?" Carsen demanded, astonished.

 

"No," Eliot said. "Not with the Library. He'll have to come here for staging, but he doesn't have to see any more than a room with blank walls. Or curtains, or whatever will hide the extent of the Annex from him."

 

"Penelope's shroud," Jenkins said.

 

"Of course," Carsen said. "She unraveled each day's weaving, so it never ends. It's plenty long enough to cover the interior of the Annex. I'll get it. Jones, I'll need your help to get it hung."

 

Eliot let the bustle around him fade to the background of his awareness. He had a call to make.

 

"Eliot Spencer." Quinn sounded amused and, just maybe, a little eager. "Need another favor?"

 

"This time, the favor's its own payment."

 

There was a pause. "I'm going to need at least three shots of single malt to catch up to whatever you just said. That doesn't make any sense."

 

"You'll see when you get here," Eliot told him. "Where are you now?"

 

"Marseille."

 

Eliot let his eyes drift closed as he pictured the city in his mind. It had been almost a dozen years since he'd been there, but it was in France - the likelihood that much had changed in the interim was small.

 

"Notre Dame de la Garde," he said. "The bell tower."

 

"I can be there in ten minutes," Quinn said. "Who's my contact?"

 

Eliot surveyed the remainder of the crew, met Cassandra's gaze. "Cassandra Cillian. Redhead, blue eyes, dresses like a schoolgirl, and she's about as threatening as one."

 

"Hey!" Cassandra exclaimed. "I do not look like a schoolgirl."

 

"You're wearing a mini-skirt and knee socks," Eliot reminded her, Quinn's chuckle sounding in his ear. "You kinda do."

 

"But -!"

 

Eliot turned away from her. "This job won't take long. Less than a day."

 

There was a longer pause before, "You've dealt straight with me before now. I'm in."

 

"Thanks, Quinn." Eliot paused, considered a code phrase. "You tell her you'll be her huckleberry, and she'll say she loves that movie."

 

"Who doesn't?" Quinn asked, and Eliot heard the _click_ of the call ending.

 

"Miss Cillian," Jenkins said, "the door's set for Marseille."

 

"Now you've got your friend on the way," Flynn said as Cassandra stepped through the doorway, "we could use some help hanging Penelope's shroud."

 

"I got a stop to make," Eliot said. A stop he would only whisper to Jenkins far away from the prying eyes and ears of Ezekiel Jones. The man took so much pleasure in announcing that he was a world-class thief at any opportunity that Eliot would've been tempted to write him off as a pretender if he hadn't seen the background check Hardison had run on him. But Eliot had seen it, and therefore he'd be as careful as he was around Parker.

 

#

 

Jacob had no idea how long he spent examining his prison - his captors had taken everything except his clothes, even his shoelaces, and he chose not to think about what that said about Eliot's skills - but by the end of it, he was certain.

 

There was a hole in the floor in one corner of the room - an early toilet, and not large enough even for Parker to squeeze through, much less a man almost double her mass - and no other loose stones or mortar that Jacob had found. A window in the door only opened from the outside, and even it was less than six inches on a side. The wires that dangled bare bulbs were in the center of the ceiling, too far for him to reach, even if he could somehow climb the stone walls.

 

No, the only way out of this room was through the door, and Jacob was feeling less certain that he'd walk through the door under his own power.

 

Oh, he was good enough at fighting thanks to years of bar brawls honed by Colonel Baird's instruction since he'd become a Librarian, but good enough, when compared to men who he had to assume were professionals, would be only slightly better than completely unskilled.

 

But that didn't mean he'd let them do whatever they wanted to with him. He might be going down, but he'd go down fighting and take as many of them with him as he could.

 

A noise at the door made him turn, just as it opened to admit three men. None of them were the man with the too-slick smile who'd spoken to him before, Jacob noted. He also noted that two of the three moved to flank a third.

 

"It's too bad Mr. Moreau wants you kept alive," the man in the center said. "I begged him to let me kill you."

 

"I didn't do anything to you," Jacob said. "I'm not Eliot Spencer."

 

"No, you're not. But Spencer killed my partner - my lover. Only fair that I get to kill his brother in return."

 

"Lucky for me Moreau wants me alive," Jacob muttered.

 

The man smiled. "He didn't say unharmed."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiccup in posting, but I caught a nasty cold and could barely breathe for a few days, much less do anything that required brainwork, like posting here...

When Eliot returned to the Annex, creamy linen fabric hung from the upstairs balcony, camouflaging everything other than the workroom. Quinn and Cassandra had returned from Marseille and someone - Jenkins, probably - had brought Quinn a mug of tea.

 

Without prompting, Quinn set his cup aside and came to take one of the two oversized, and over-heavy, duffel bags Eliot had brought back with him.

 

The other man certainly knew what was in the duffels - they made a very distinctive _thunk_ when they landed on the table - but he said nothing other than, "Interesting place you've got here."

 

"Not my place," Eliot said and offered a hand. "Just borrowing it for this job."

 

Quinn shook his hand, with a glance that took in the upper story. Beyond the cloth, shelves of books were just visible even though the upstairs lights were out.

 

"This is related to Chamblin House," Quinn said.

 

"Not really," Eliot said.

 

"Uh-huh." But Quinn was a professional and let it lie. He'd have his answers soon enough, Eliot thought, at least some of them.

 

"Quinn, Baird." Eliot made introductions quickly. "Gotta ask you to turn off your cell phone and hand it over. Jenkins will return it when we get back."

 

That statement earned him a raised eyebrow, but to his surprise, Quinn pulled his phone out and started powering it down. Quinn quirked one lip in a half-grin.

 

"Like I said, you've played straight with me until now."

 

Eliot could only nod - as much because he wasn't going to say anything else until he was certain Quinn's phone was off and not recording or transmitting as at the display of trust he'd just given.

 

Eliot wasn't sure he could have shown the same trust in return.

 

"Thank you, Mr. Quinn." Jenkins took the phone. "I assure you, it will be in the same condition when I return it."

 

Quinn nodded, though he didn't look entirely convinced. Eliot couldn't blame him, but more reassurances would only serve to raise his suspicions even more.

 

Eliot took a breath. "This job'll be quick and dirty."

 

"Best kind," Quinn said.

 

"And personal," Eliot added.

 

"Worst kind," Quinn amended. "You sure about it?"

 

"We're going after Damien Moreau."

 

Quinn's eyebrows shot up. "You worked for him, and you got out alive. Most people would take the win."

 

"And my team put him in prison in San Lorenzo a couple of years ago," Eliot said. "But he still has contacts and influence, and now he has my twin brother."

 

Eliot watched Quinn's mouth purse in consideration, before he glanced at Baird.

 

"You knew," he said, just a statement of fact.

 

"I work with Jacob," Baird said. "I met Eliot a few months ago."

 

"Jake's more trusting than I am," Eliot said, and that made Quinn chuckle.

 

"Not setting the bar high there, Eliot. Where is he and how do we get him back?"

 

"There's only one place Moreau would go," Eliot said. "His villa - it used to be his, before President Ribera confiscated it."

 

"Ribera just died," Quinn said. "News that his villa and its contents are going up for auction was all over - every thief, retrieval specialist, and questionable antiquities dealer in the world will be descending on San Lorenzo for that auction."

 

Baird looked at Quinn, her expression caught between surprise and disbelief. Eliot looked down to hide his smirk.

 

Quinn only shrugged. "Probably a few legitimate ones, too."

 

"How do you know Eliot, exactly?" Baird murmured.

 

"We'll take the Back Door to his villa," Eliot said to cut off Quinn's answer, "and clear it. Jake'll be held in the dungeon below."

 

"San Lorenzo was a British colony," Baird said. "Were they still building dungeons during the colonial period?"

 

"Not the time for a history lesson, Colonel," Eliot snapped. "I know it's there, and that's where he'll keep Jake."

 

"Villa," Quinn repeated. "That as defenseless as it sounds?"

 

"You wish," Eliot told him. He pulled a roll of blueprints from one of the duffel bags he'd brought and opened them onto the table.

 

#

 

Ten minutes later, Eliot opened the duffel bags and showed its contents to his teammates.

 

"Think you have enough guns there, Spencer?" Baird asked dryly.

 

Eliot paused to consider the question, and in that second, Quinn answered for him.

 

"Against Damien Moreau? Maybe." Quinn pulled a Glock 22 from the duffel and looked at Eliot. "You're serious about this."

 

"Goddamn right I am." Eliot didn't look up at him, instead focusing on choosing his own weapons.

 

"Thought you didn't like guns," Quinn said.

 

"I can use 'em just fine - and I will."

 

"Tell me you brought along some of those fancy ear pieces," Baird said. Eliot didn't know whether she'd said it to deliberately lighten the mood or not, but he was grateful for it anyway.

 

In answer to her question, he withdrew a small case from one of the duffels, opened it, and withdrew his own earbud before offering one first to her, then to Quinn.

 

"And you'll want this." Eliot offered Baird a flak jacket, nodded to Quinn to get his own.

 

When all three of them had their flak jackets on and fastened, and the comms were checked - Hardison would squawk at that if he were here, but as much as Eliot trusted the man, he would always double and triple check the gear that his life depended on - Eliot nodded to Jenkins.

 

A moment later, Jenkins said, "Ready."

 

"Good luck," Cassandra said. Eliot nodded an acknowledgment and opened the door to take the first, stumbling step into San Lorenzo.

 

Eliot blinked in the sunshine as he heard Quinn muttering beside him. "Never gonna get used to that."

 

"Parker?" Eliot said. She’d taken an earbud before she left.

 

"I’m on the south side of the villa," her voice came back. "I counted six guards on perimeter patrol at fifteen-second intervals."

 

"Thanks, Parker," Eliot told her. "We’ll take it from here."

 

"There’s an easy route up to the southeast corner," Parker continued as though he hadn’t spoken. "Partly concealed from the house, too."

 

"Parker." Eliot put every ounce of command he’d ever had into that single word and the two that followed. "Go home."

 

"No," she said. "Not yet. Not until we have Happy Eliot."

 

"Parker -"

 

"I can get him out," she said quietly. "I’m not a fighter like the rest of you, but I am a thief. Getting things and people out of places is what I do. Especially if he’s hurt, I can help him without costing you a fighter."

 

"You know she’s right, Spencer," Baird said.

 

"I do," Eliot admitted and hoped the crack in his voice didn’t sound as loud as he thought it did.

 

He’d never wanted his former life to intrude on his work with the Leverage crew – and for a while, he’d succeeded. Then the Italian woman had shown up, and his team had learned more about that former life than he’d ever intended.

 

He’d gotten through that with only Nate Ford aware of any of the details of his former life, and Damien Moreau in prison. For the first time in years, Eliot had allowed himself to breathe easier, to relax if only somewhat, knowing that Damien Moreau would never be a part of his life again.

 

And then he’d gotten the voice mail this morning, and not only had his former life collided with his Leverage life, his twin had gotten caught in the crossfire.

 

There really was only one thing Eliot could do now. That Parker understood that, or seemed to, brought some comfort, but the weight of what he would be doing still settled on his shoulders.

 

"All right," he said, his voice stronger. "Let’s go."

 

Eliot led the way to Parker’s location, fighting back memories of the last time he’d been to Damien Moreau’s villa. Those were the memories that he hated - the good times with Damien, the times when he'd felt like he belonged somewhere. He'd chased that feeling from the day he'd left home to enlist, only able to identify and name the feeling once he'd settled in with Nathan Ford's crew.

 

Before Nate, he'd let himself belong with Damien Moreau. And then Damien asked him to sell his soul.

 

Not literally - Damien Moreau wasn’t the devil even if he did share the name of the antichrist from that old movie, and Eliot knew that - but he’d asked Eliot to do something evil. So evil that even now, so many years after the fact, it still haunted him.

 

He’d gotten out, then, by killing every one of Moreau’s men that dared to come anywhere near him. Now it looked like he’d have to do the same thing, only worse, to save his twin.

 

It was a price he’d gladly pay.

 

#

 

Eliot supposed he shouldn't be surprised that Parker had found not just an easy approach to Damien's villa but the best approach. He crouched with the others at the base of a rocky outcrop where what might've been a wildlife trail worked its way up the promontory where some long-ago architect had chosen to build a villa.

 

"Fifteen seconds isn't a lot of time to get up there," Quinn observed.

 

"I can do it," Parker said at the same time Eliot said, "It's more time than we'd have anywhere else."

 

"What about going in the front door in disguise?" Baird asked. "Your crew made that kind of con into an art form."

 

Eliot just looked at her, the question unasked.

 

Baird shrugged. "So I've heard."

 

"It'd be worth a shot against anyone but Damien," Eliot said. "He takes security real serious, probably only gotten worse since I was here. Best bet is straight up this path, take out the guards and run for the house."

 

"We can get partway up - see that bend, there?" Quinn pointed, and Eliot nodded. "Wait there for the next round of patrol."

 

Eliot nodded. "You an' me'll take out the guards. Parker, Baird - run for the house."

 

Eliot drew a knife and watched, counting the seconds in his head.

 

Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

 

"Now."


	4. Chapter 4

Jacob hurt.

 

He didn't think he'd ever hurt as badly as he did now, and found himself wishing for the relief of unconsciousness if only for a few minutes. Instead adrenaline combined with the pain to keep him awake as he lay on the mattress in the corner of his cell.

 

Maybe when the adrenaline rush faded - maybe then he'd pass out.

 

He hoped.

 

A quiet noise, a scratching so faint he barely heard it over his labored breathing, sent even more adrenaline surging through his system, and Jacob struggled to sit up. He wanted to face whatever was coming on his feet.

 

The door opened silently, and Jacob found himself staring at the lithe figure that slipped inside and gently pressed the door closed once again. It couldn't be -

 

"Parker?"

 

"I found Happy Eliot," she murmured quietly as she crossed the room with silent steps to kneel beside him. "He doesn't look broken."

 

"Not broken," he said. "Banged up a bit, but not broken."

 

"How would I know if he's bleeding internally?" Parker asked. "I can't see inside him."

 

"Do you have another comm?" Jacob hoped she did - he hurt too much to try to follow the conversation without one.

 

"Oh!" Parker said, as though the thought had only just occurred to her, and reached into a pocket.

 

A moment later, Jacob settled the tiny device in his ear. "Eliot?"

 

"Jake." The relief in that one word made Jacob blink back sudden moisture in his eyes. When Eliot spoke again, his voice was calm. "What'd they do to you?"

 

"Beat me up pretty good," Jacob replied. "Nothing's broken as far as I can tell."

 

"Are you concussed?"

 

"They didn't hit my head. Your friend Moreau wanted me alive."

 

Jacob was pleased that even Parker flinched at Eliot's snarl. "Not my friend. Not anymore."

 

"Can you move?"

 

Jacob didn't recognize the voice, and spared a moment to wonder who else Eliot had brought with him, but the businesslike tone had him answering immediately, "Yeah. Not fast, but I can."

 

"Help him, Parker," the same unfamiliar voice said. "We've got incoming."

 

"Who's we?" Jacob grunted as he rolled to his knees.

 

Parker was beside him instantly, ready to help. "Grumpy Eliot. Colonel Baird. Quinn. Me. You."

 

"Baird?" Jacob repeated as he tested his balance.

 

"Right here, Stone," came the brisk answer, followed by grunts and the now-too-familiar sound of flesh hitting flesh. "Jesus, Spencer, you know how to pick enemies."

 

"C'mon," Parker said, and Jacob re-focused on her. It was easier to let the sounds whatever might be happening wherever his twin was - close, Jacob knew, but had no reference for where that might actually be - lull him into mindlessness.

 

Right now, mindlessness could get him killed. Worse, it could get Eliot killed. Jacob bit the inside of his jaw, letting that sudden sharp pain bring him fully alert.

 

"Lead the way, Parker."

 

#

 

Jake was alive.

 

Those three words repeated in Eliot's mind, a mantra that should have calmed him but in reality did nothing to soothe him as methodically, step-by-step, he advanced on the next room in Damien Moreau's villa, sweeping and clearing it with Quinn and Baird to back him.

 

When they reached the door to the basement, Eliot took a moment to reload his Glock. So far, he'd killed ten men, and Baird and Quinn had killed almost that many apiece.

 

The worst lay ahead, he knew - down the stairs and into the basement that was more a dungeon than a basement. Still, Jake was alive, and they were almost free. They just had to get past the killing field that was the stairway into the basement.

 

Quinn pushed forward, shoved the door open hard enough that it banged on the opposite wall.

 

"The hell?" Eliot demanded even as Baird swore.

 

"I'm faster. Cover me."

 

And then Quinn bolted down the stairs. Eliot didn't even bother to roll his eyes before crouching in the doorway, sweeping the floor below with his gaze and his Glock.

 

He squeezed the trigger once more, and Baird fired over his shoulder, and the two men who'd tried to draw a bead on Quinn both fell.

 

"Worked fine," Quinn said.

 

"This time," Eliot said. "Let's go."

 

Eliot led the way toward the corridor that led to the dungeons, turned a corner and came face to face with Parker - and Jake.

 

"Good to see you, bro," Jake said. His voice sounded strained, and Eliot couldn't blame him, not if he'd been beaten as badly as it sounded like from his description.

 

"You, too." Eliot gave his twin a tight grin. "Let's get you home."

 

"Oh, Eliot." The words echoed in the confined space, and instinctively Eliot searched for the loudspeakers that broadcast it. "You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?"

 

"I didn't expect you to hide," Eliot snapped back.

 

"Oh, I'm hardly hiding, Eliot. Join me in my study, won't you?"

 

#

 

"Come into my parlor," Baird quipped, but Jacob could tell her heart wasn't in it. She looked more serious than he could remember seeing her, and he couldn't disagree with her assessment.

 

"There's no other way out?" Quinn asked.

 

Parker shook her head.

 

"They'll be waiting at the top of the stairs," Eliot said. "We have to come through the doorway, and they'll be ready for us when we do."

 

Jacob had never been in combat - not real combat, not a war - but even he got the implications of Eliot's statement. He supposed it was better to die by bullets than beating, but that was small comfort.

 

Jacob watched Eliot's eyes drift closed, and his heart broke for his twin. Eliot had risked his life, along with Parker's, Baird's, and that of the blond man who had to be Quinn, to free him, and Jacob couldn't imagine what his twin was feeling at the moment. What he could do was offer some reassurance, however little.

 

"Thanks for coming, Eliot," Jacob said. "All of you. I appreciate it."

 

"Stop that." Parker's tone was harsh. "Stop talking like this is over. Grumpy Eliot's gotten people out of worse situations without help. Now he has us, so it'll be lots easier. Right, Quinn?"

 

Quinn's expression flashed through _deer in the headlights_ to _yeah, could be_ so quickly Jacob almost missed it. "If anyone can get us out of this, it's Eliot Spencer."

 

"No pressure," Baird added. "I'm trying to call Jenkins for an exit, but I've got no signal."

 

"Too much stone," Jacob said absently, and was startled by Parker's sharp laugh. He blinked, staring first at her in befuddlement, then looking to Baird for answers to see that she was biting back a grin, as was Quinn, and even Eliot looked amused.

 

"What did I - oh," he stopped himself when he remembered what he'd said. "No pun intended."

 

"All right, here's the plan." Eliot gestured them closer, lowered his voice so that Jacob, mere inches away, could barely hear it, even through his earbud. "Parker, out the front door, there's a garage ten meters to the right. Find a car big enough and hotwire it. Get back to the door, back to the Annex, fast as you can."

 

Parker nodded, once.

 

"Your brother's hurt," Quinn pointed out in a similarly quiet tone. "Even if he'd normally be as fast as you, he's half-dead on his feet."

 

Jacob wanted to protest, but every aching muscle in his body kept him silent. Eliot's next words stabbed a harsher pain into his heart.

 

"So you and Baird will take him. I'll buy you as much time as I can."

 

"No," Jacob protested, though he wasn't certain he actually spoke the word aloud.

 

That was okay, Parker did. "No. That's not a good plan. It's not even a plan."

 

"It's the only plan we have, Parker." Eliot's tone was surprisingly gentle. "And you know that, mastermind."

 

Parker's expression was mulish, and for a moment Jacob wondered if she would actually hit his twin, but all she said was, "I don't like this plan."

 

Eliot's lips twitched. "Not a huge fan of it, myself, but it's what we've got."

 

"Eliot," Jacob began, then paused, uncertain what to say.

 

"'S all right, Jake," Eliot told him. "It's what I do."

 

Eliot turned to the others, casually removing his earbud and slipping it into his pocket, before Jacob could respond. "We'll stage at the top of the stairs. I'll go through first, the rest of you move as fast as you can."

 

Jacob bit back another protest. The question had been decided already, and he would not embarrass himself by being any less stoic than Eliot was.

 

"Take these." Baird offered Eliot a pair of guns and a handful of extra clips. "I'll be helping Stone, and I've still got my own weapon."

 

"Thanks." Eliot stashed the items around his body, then looked around. "We ready?"

 

Jacob nodded with the others, his gaze locked on his twin's. There were so many words they never spoke - not before Eliot enlisted, and not since they'd reunited, and Jacob could only hope Eliot understood the meaning of all of them from that single look.

 

Then Eliot jerked his head toward the stairs, and they began to climb.

At the top of the stairs, Eliot took a breath, let it out slowly. He glanced at Quinn with a raised eyebrow, and Quinn lifted his left hand, fingers splayed wide. _Five._

 

Eliot held a gun in each hand and Jacob spared a moment to wonder how that could even work, how anyone could dual wield handguns with any accuracy. Quinn tucked his thumb under. _Four._

 

Parker crept up the stairs and took her position behind Eliot, resting a hand on his shoulder briefly - though whether in encouragement or farewell Jacob wasn't certain. Quinn's pinky turned down. _Three_.

 

Baird resettled herself against him, and Jacob thought that in another world, they might have been more than battle comrades. He dismissed the thought as soon as it came, though - Maggie deserved his loyalty in thought as well as action.

 

 _Two_.

 

It should have been a V-for-victory, but in his pain-caused haze, Jacob found himself thinking, _A Roman walks into a bar, says five beers, please…_

 

Apparently, he'd been beaten worse than he thought.

 

"Ready," Baird murmured, and Jacob could only nod.

 

Of course Quinn dropped his index finger next, instead of his middle finger. _One._

 

Eliot turned back, then, to meet Jacob's gaze once more - Jacob refused to acknowledge that it might be the last time - before taking a breath and letting it out slowly.

 

Quinn's middle finger dropped. _Now._

 

Jacob thought he'd never seen anyone move as quickly as Eliot did then, lunging through the doorway, the staccato _bang-bang_ of gunfire announcing his arrival as effectively as anything else could.

 

Then Parker was gone almost before Jacob could register the fact, and he could only think, _she's even faster._

 

Then Jacob was running, stumbling along beside Baird toward the door Eliot had indicated, taking an odd reassurance from the gunfire behind him. As long as he heard it, Eliot was still standing, still fighting back.

 

Quinn's free hand wrapped around Jacob's arm, and Jacob found himself being half-dragged instead of just stumbling. He had to move faster, and he tried to ignore the pain that vibrated through him at every pounding step so he could at least keep up with Baird and Quinn.

 

And then they were out the door and he blinked against the brightness of the sun after however long he'd spent in that windowless cell.

 

His eyes had barely adjusted when a large black car screeched to a halt in front of them. The driver's window rolled down and Parker yelled, "Get in!"

 


	5. Chapter 5

Eliot hadn't been this angry the last two times he'd decimated Damien Moreau's forces.

 

The first time, anger at himself had brought him back from losing himself forever. Before that, he'd been numb with apathy - in a space where he did what he was told without questioning, without even thinking, because it was the easier choice. Then he'd done the thing he'd never spoken of since, and doing that had finally - not too late, if only barely - sparked the anger that made him turn away from that path.

 

The second time, he'd faced a similar situation as he did now, ready to lay down his life to save Nate Ford and the Italian woman who'd maneuvered them so they'd take Damien Moreau down. Eliot had been ready and willing to kill Moreau then, only letting himself be stopped by Nate's assurance that he had plans for Moreau.

 

Those plans sent Damien Moreau to a San Lorenzo prison that was supposedly escape-proof, and Eliot had let himself believe that would be the end of his involvement with Damien Moreau forever.

 

A single phone call had changed that, and this time, Eliot knew decimation of Damien Moreau's forces wasn't enough.

 

This time, he would annihilate them, and Damien Moreau with them.

 

Eliot was firing even before he cleared the doorway, a knowledge of the villa's layout combined with spatial awareness developed from years of combat to give him the most likely places for Damien's men to conceal themselves.

 

His first aimed high and right, to the second floor balcony overlooking the door, and a grunt that mixed pain and surprise told him he'd been correct to start there. Eliot grinned, knowing the expression would unnerve some of Moreau's men, the less experienced ones, and he'd take any advantage he could get, however small it might be.

 

He followed that first shot with others directed toward the corner of the hallway leading to the living room, the curio cabinet along the right wall of the entry, relying more on instinct than actual observation. More of his shots hit than missed, but a single shot wouldn't always bring down a determined gunman.

 

So he kept firing, kept moving to make himself a harder target, and could only hope that he'd buy Jake and the others enough time to make their escape before sheer numbers overwhelmed him.

 

The last man Eliot could see fell, and Eliot squatted behind the remnants of the curio cabinet before taking moment to reload.

 

He stood and turned to go deeper into the house, coming up short when a man with dark hair bleached blond at the tips stepped into the doorway ahead of him, a Sig Sauer P226 in his hand, aimed at Eliot's chest.

 

"Eliot Spencer," the man said. "Beating your brother wasn't nearly as satisfying as killing you is going to be."

 

"Professionally or personally?" Eliot asked.

 

"Personal," the man replied. "You killed my lover."

 

 _I did?_ Eliot knew better than to ask the question aloud. Instead, he studied the man before him, compared what he saw to the faces of everyone he'd killed, and got a match.

 

"Chapman," Eliot said.

 

"Chapman," the other man confirmed, adjusted his aim so that the Sig Sauer was pointed directly at Eliot's head.

 

Eliot feinted right, dodged left, and fired. A second shot echoed eerily after his.

 

"Took you long enough."

 

Eliot glanced over his shoulder to see Quinn lowering his weapon. "Couldn't shoot through you."

 

"Yeah, well, why should I make it easy on you?" Eliot asked. He strode forward and kicked Chapman's lover's gun away.

 

"Because you want me to have your back?" Quinn gave him a cheeky grin.

 

That was obvious, so Eliot only nodded once. "This way."

 

Eliot led the way deeper into the villa, gunshots punctuating each step. Then he was at the doorway to what Damien somewhat euphemistically called his study. A single low shelf of books ran the length of the picture window overlooking the bay below. A glass desk sat in front of it, and behind the desk sat Damien Moreau.

 

A pair of men flanked him, semi-automatic tactical rifles cradled in their arms.

 

 _Flak jacket won't do much against those,_ Eliot mused. Then he reminded himself that as long as Jake was safe, his own life was irrelevant.

 

"So glad you could join me," Damien said, his voice as silky and seductive as ever.

 

"So sorry to have to," Eliot shot back. "You screwed up, Damien."

 

"Really?" Damien glanced at the men flanking him. "I fail to see how."

 

"You should've let Jake go. Bought him a first-class ticket wherever he wanted to go. Then you might've gotten out of this alive."

 

"Of the two of us," Damien mused, "which one has the greatest chance of walking out of here alive?"

 

"Your disadvantage is that you want to walk out of here alive," Eliot said.

 

"I want to walk out of here alive," Quinn muttered.

 

Eliot ignored that, still focused on Damien and his thugs as he continued, "You always want to walk out alive, Damien. You've never found anything worth dying for. Whereas me - I'm content to die if it means Jake's safe."

 

Damien shook his head, chuckling. "The rumors are wrong. You haven't gone soft - you've gone noble. Much worse than just going soft."

 

Damien was still chuckling, and the men flanking him glanced at each other, amusement in their expressions. There wouldn't be a better chance.

 

Eliot fired.

 


	6. Chapter 6

If Jacob had expected any kind of gentle ride to the door back to the Annex, he would've been disappointed. Parker, apparently, learned to drive in a demolition derby. Or, perhaps, from a drunken taxi driver in Kuala Lumpur.

 

Jacob counted it a win that he managed not to throw up during the drive, nor the lurching stop.

 

Parker was out of the car and by his door before Baird even got her door open. "C'mon!"

 

Parker helped him out of the car, supported him until Baird reached his other side.

 

"Eliot, we're here," Parker said.

 

"He took out his comm," Jacob said. "I saw him."

 

Parker's expression crashed, and he wished he hadn't said anything.

 

"Quinn," Baird barked. "Status?"

 

No answer came.

 

Baird repeated the question twice more, and Jacob swallowed back a lump in his throat. He'd never begrudge anyone for giving in to emotional pain on top of physical pain, but he couldn't allow himself that luxury - not here, not now, not until they were safely home.

 

"We should go," Baird murmured.

 

"No," Parker snapped. "I'm not leaving without him."

 

"You know he probably didn't survive," Baird began, and Jacob barely recognized the anguished cry as his own.

 

"I don't care." Parker's expression turned mulish. "He always said he'd die to protect us. The least I can do is bring him home."

 

"Parker," Baird began, then broke off to look at Jacob.

 

Jacob could only shake his head.

 

"It's the right thing to do," Parker said firmly. "You guys go on. I'll do it."

 

She glanced at Jacob, and he met her gaze without flinching. He nodded, once, and she nodded back, a silent acknowledgment of the risk she was taking and the closure she offered.

 

Parker held the look a moment longer, then turned to get back in the car they'd escaped in.

 

Just as she turned the engine over, a voice crackled through their earbuds.

 

"You better have that magic door open, because we're coming in fast."

 

Parker squealed, and Jacob winced, even though he shared her relief. It was Quinn, not Eliot, but he'd said _we_.

 

Eliot was alive.

 

Jacob turned to the door closest to him, reached for it, and when it opened, he could see the Annex beyond. He blinked at the linen fabric draped over the … well, everything, but said only, "Ready for you."

 

"Go on," Baird told him. "You'll only slow us down if they're hurt."

 

Jacob wanted to protest, but he knew Baird was right. One step, two, and he bit back a groan as he stumbled into the Annex.

 

Only to groan aloud when Cassandra flung her arms around him. "You're back!"

 

"Got to move," Jacob said. "The others are coming through behind me - I think Eliot's hurt."

 

Cassandra allowed him to move them a few steps away from the door, but didn't loosen her grip. Jacob scowled, and pushed her away. "Ribs, Cassie."

 

"You're hurt," Cassandra exclaimed. "Jenkins!"

 

Jenkins came in from his lab, if the white coat he wore was anything to judge by. "Welcome back, Mr. Stone."

 

"He's hurt," Cassandra said.

 

Before Jenkins or Jacob could respond, Parker's voice echoed through the Annex. "Coming through!"

 

The woman herself followed hard on her words, lunging past Jacob and Cassandra to whisk - no, fling - the contents of the new, round table to the floor.

 

"Miss Parker," Jenkins began. "Was that really necessary?"

 

He was answered by Baird and Quinn's entrance, Eliot supported between them. They laid him on the table, and Quinn pulled a knife from a sheath at his ankle and started to unfasten Eliot's flak jacket.

 

"Tell me you have a blowout kit, Colonel," Quinn said.

 

"Like for a tire?" Cassandra asked.

 

"I don't, dammit," Baird replied.

 

"Any kind of hemostatic agent?" Quinn pressed. He'd gotten the flak jacket open and now was cutting through Eliot's shirt. "He'll bleed out if you don't."

 

Jacob wanted to check his twin's condition for himself, but knew better than to get in the way of the people trying to save his life. He could only stand and watch, and wait, and pray.

 

"I said no," Baird snapped. "Jenkins, re-set the door to the nearest hospital. It's his only chance."

 

"Colonel Baird." Jenkins's voice was as calm as ever, and Jacob clung to that steadiness in the wake of Baird's declaration. "Remember where you are. What, exactly, happened?"

 

"Two guys with tactical assault weapons," Quinn told him. "What part of _he'll bleed out_ didn't you understand?"

 

"Ah, the impatience of youth," Jenkins said. "Excuse me."

 

If his twin weren't bleeding - dying - Jacob would've laughed at Quinn's expression when Jenkins body-checked him aside.

 

"Mm, yes, that is serious." Jenkins looked up at Quinn. "Can you remove the bullet?"

 

Quinn's expression darkened, and he drew a breath to - Jacob didn't know what Quinn intended. But he cut it off before it began.

 

"It's okay, Quinn. Do what he says."

 

"Even if it means your brother's life?" Quinn demanded.

 

"It won't," Jacob said. Quinn glared at him, but turned back to Eliot.

 

Jenkins turned to Cassandra. "If you'll check the Library, row 712, shelf 6A, I believe you'll see what we need there. Bring it - quickly, please."

 

"Pressure, as soon as the slug's clear," Quinn said, and Baird nodded a grim acknowledgment.

 

Then a small hand slipped into Jacob's, and he turned to see Parker standing next to him, staring at his twin with wide, anxious eyes.

 

Jacob could only squeeze her hand in reassurance.

 

"What the _hell_?" Quinn's startled yelp yanked Jacob's attention back to the table where Eliot lay -

 

\- and he almost laughed aloud when he saw Excalibur lying on Eliot's chest.

 

"Well, yes." Jenkins sounded thoughtful. "That works, too."

 

"Cal!" Flynn's voice echoed through the Annex. "Cal, where'd you go?"

 

Then Flynn burst through the curtains hanging from the second story, a sword in his hand, and stopped dead in his tracks.

 

"No," he said. "This is _not_ the way to keep a secret, Cal."

 

Flynn strode forward, reached out a hand toward Excalibur.

 

A growling noise from the sword made Flynn jerk back, Quinn stare, and Jacob laugh, even though his ribs hurt with it.

 

Parker crept forward, and only then did Jacob realize her hand wasn't in his anymore. _Just pretend it never happened - safer that way._

 

She looked at Eliot, then reached out to stroke one fingertip down Excalibur's grip. "Thank you for saving my friend."

 

"I've got it!" Cassandra came in, then, waving a clear vial filled with green liquid. Jacob recognized it from his first mission, before he was truly a Librarian. Bathsheba's Oil of Healing.

 

Cassandra stopped when she saw Excalibur. "I guess you don't need it, after all."

 

"Stone does," Baird says. "He was beaten pretty badly."

 

"Be fine in a few days," Jacob said. _More like weeks_.

 

"No need to be stubborn, Mr. Stone," Jenkins said. "We can spare a drop for you."

 

He withdrew an eyedropper from the pocket of his lab coat and offered it to Jacob.

 

Jacob eyed it suspiciously. "Where's that been?"

 

"No place that would make you uncomfortable," Jenkins replied.

 

"That's reassuring." But Jacob took the eyedropper and carefully piped some of the Oil into it. He let one drop fall onto his tongue, then returned the rest to the bottle Cassandra still held.

 

She smiled at him as she re-capped the bottle.

 

Maybe it was wishful thinking, maybe it was the placebo effect, or maybe, just maybe, he wasn't hurting as much as he had been.

 

He was feeling better, his brother was alive - Jacob decided it had been a good day, after all.

 

Except -

 

"Shit," he muttered.

 

"What?" Baird asked.

 

"The reason I went to San Lorenzo in the first place," he said. "I didn't get the artifact."

 

"Artifact?" Parker perked up. "You were going after an artifact?"

 

"I managed to ID it just before those guys grabbed me," Jacob said. "It's still sitting in Moreau's library. Or it was."

 

"I'll get it," Parker offered. "What's it look like?"

 

"A nineteenth century Katar dagger," Jacob told her.

 

"And I'll know it from other daggers because…?"

 

"It's got two flintlock pistols built into the grip."

 

"Huh. Okay." Parker turned toward the Back Door, paused to look over her shoulder at Eliot. "Wanna come?"

 

"He's not awake yet," Jacob began, but broke off when Excalibur wiggled its pommel in what would be a negative manner if Excalibur had been human.

 

"You're right," Parker said. "Grumpy Eliot needs you more."

 

Then she was gone.

 

"A flying sword," Quinn muttered. "And some kind of healing potion. Not to mention a teleportation device - or a miniaturized Einstein-Rosen bridge."

 

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio," Jacob quoted.

 

From behind him, Eliot groaned. "I did not get shot just to listen to you recite Shakespeare."

 

"You're awake," Jacob said.

 

"Doesn't take a 190 IQ to figure that out, genius," Eliot shot back, and Jacob grinned. His twin was definitely better. "Okay, sword, I'm fine, quit cuddling, or whatever it is you're doing."

 

"Healing you," Cassandra said.

 

"Oh." Eliot patted Excalibur awkwardly. "Thanks, then."

 

Excalibur floated up off Eliot's chest, point down, and dipped its hilt, almost as if in a bow. Then it leveled out and, point first, flung itself toward Flynn.

 

"Hah!" Flynn parried, but was forced a step back, then another and another as Excalibur pressed its advantage.

 

Quinn's expression made Jacob chuckle and clap the other man on the shoulder. "Think of them as Kato and the Green Hornet."

 

"That - makes an odd kind of sense," Baird said.

 

"Colonel." Eliot's voice made them all turn to him. He'd sat up and was exploring the place where his wound had been with one hand.

 

Eliot was staring at Baird, and Baird straightened, if only slightly.

 

"Jenkins," she said, "I think you owe Quinn his phone back. Cassandra, if you'll return the Oil. And I'll just - go make sure Flynn doesn't destroy the place."

 

"You'll have to teach me how you do that," Jacob told his twin.

 

Eliot quirked a grin, but now he was focused on Quinn. "You get it."

 

"Get what?" Quinn asked, frowning. Then his expression cleared. "Yeah, I get it."

 

"I don't," Jacob said.

 

"In helping him help you," Quinn explained, "I learned that Eliot Spencer has a brother. In our line of work, that kind of knowledge could be worth a lot to the right people."

 

Jacob got it. "Like Damien Moreau."

 

"Among others," Quinn agreed.

 

"I gave you leverage over me," Eliot said. "But this place, these people - they're Jake's. You get that?"

 

"I got it," Quinn said.

 

Then the Back Door opened, and Parker breezed in just ahead of what appeared to be a massive rainstorm. Jacob ran to close the door.

 

"Weather changes fast in San Lorenzo," Parker observed, then slung a pack from her shoulder onto the table.

 

"That's a pretty big pack for a Katar dagger," Jacob observed.

 

Parker pulled the dagger from the pack and offered it to him. "This is for you. The rest is for me."

 

"The rest?" Jacob repeated, even as Eliot pinched the bridge of his nose. "Parker-"

"It's okay, the general was there. He didn't mind."

 

"General?" Jacob asked.

 

"A friend. At least, he was before this." Eliot jerked his chin toward Parker, who still rummaged in the depths of her pack.

 

"Your cell phone, Mr. Quinn." Jenkins moved almost as silently as Parker did, Jacob thought. "I assure you, it hasn't been tampered with in any fashion."

 

"Thanks." Quinn slipped the phone into his pocket without turning it on.

 

"And I believe we owe you transport, as well," Jenkins continued. "Back to Marseille? Or is there somewhere else you'd prefer to go?"

 

"This is from me." Parker turned from her pack so quickly Jacob was surprised she didn't give herself whiplash. "Thanks for helping Grumpy Eliot get Happy Eliot back."

 

Quinn took the package - a leather box - she offered, opened it.

 

Jacob couldn't help whistling. "D'you know what that is?"

 

Quinn looked at him. "Do you?"

 

Jacob snorted. "That's _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ , the 1969 Maecenas Press edition. Illustrated by Salvador Dali, and signed by him. Only a couple thousand copies were produced."

 

"It's valuable, then?" Quinn asked.

 

"A copy sold in the low five figures a couple years ago," Jacob said.

 

"Thank you, Parker." Quinn's grave tone matched his expression. Parker beamed a smile at him before turning back to her pack.

 

"Marseille, I believe?" Jenkins prompted.

 

"Marseille," Quinn agreed.

 

Eliot slid down from the table, offered a hand to Quinn. "Thanks. I owe you a favor."

 

Quinn took his hand, glanced at Jacob. "For this, you owe me a lot of favors."

 

"Don't push your luck." But Eliot was grinning when he said it.

 

Then Quinn turned to Jacob. "Take care of yourself."

 

Jacob shook his hand in turn. "Thanks. You, too."

 

Quinn stepped through the Back Door and almost before it closed completely, Jenkins broke the connection and spun the globe, so that even if Quinn tried the door he'd stepped through, he wouldn't find the Annex again.

 

"So," Jacob said. "Anyplace else I shouldn't go?"

 

"Myanmar," Eliot replied promptly. "Half a million dollar bounty on my head there."

 

"Maybe I should've asked how many other places I shouldn't go?"

 

Eliot smirked. "The list is short, but distinguished."

 

Jacob sighed. "I'll get a pen."


End file.
